


Feels Like Flying

by SparkBeat



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Functionist Universe, Hurt/Comfort, Master/Slave, Past Abuse, Social Anxiety, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, eventually, except not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All hail the useless one! Except, the useless one is broken. Or so the council thinks. When they realize there's nothing more they can do to their captive, save death, which would be too good for him, what can they do, except invite all of the important and/or rich mechs to a party to auction him off as a slave?</p><p>Too bad that they invite a certain trine, with a weakness for rescuing small, helpless mechs.</p><p>Or: What happens when Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker 'purchase' Rung from the Functionists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Skywarp shifted from pede to pede, uneasy in the crowded room. Thundercracker laid a reassuring hand on his arm, wing tip brushing his own in a silent gesture of solidarity, one that the grounders filling the room around them wouldn’t understand, despite their constant ogling of their sleek flight frames with the naked lust of rich mechs who think they deserve the world.

 

::Can we go yet?:: He whined over their trine bond, secure in knowing none of the snooty highborns in the room would even know they were talking, let alone be able to hack the signal.

 

::Not yet, Warp. They invited us here for a reason. We need to find out what that reason is.:: Thundercracker said soothingly, shifting the hand on his arm to the broad flat expanse of his wing, stroking along the painted lines there with the surety and support only a trinemate could possess. 

 

::But-::

 

::Skywarp, we’ll be gone from this place soon enough.  _ Clearly _ they want us here because we are Vos’ command trine. They’d be fools  _ not _ to invite us.:: Even over the bond, Starscream’s voice could grate his nerves from time to time, despite his love for the other seeker.

 

::If we know why, then-::

 

“Gentlemechs, we’d like to thank you for your attendance at tonight’s gathering.” A smooth, cultured voice cut through the room, and their silent conversation, as the lights dimmed, and a row of canister lights lit up the raised platform near the back entrance to the room. A single mech stood on the stage, one of the senators best known for cozying up to the council of thirteen, a mech named Ratbat. He was gesturing towards the back door, where the entire council was filing in, and subdued chatter, both vocal and over various ‘encoded’ comm frequencies alike, filled the room.

 

::Star...I  _ really _ don’t wanna be here now.:: Skywarp tried to keep the edge of fear out of his transmission, but his wings drooped at the thought of how bad things could get with the  _ entire _ Functionist council choosing to be present in one room with regular mechs. The last time he could remember a large number of them gathering together outside the tower, only eight of them came, and the uprising of mechs cheering for the ‘Useless One’ was demolished so soundly there were only stains of oil and paint left behind where the rebels had once stood.

 

::We’ve done nothing wrong, Warp. We won’t let them hurt you.:: Thundercracker sent back, along with wave after wave of  _ safety/reassurance/love/trust _ that did little to ease the frantic pulse of his spark in his chest.

 

::Vos still refuses to give way to the Council  _ or _ the Senate...and you’re telling me they’ve got no reason to be angry at us?:: 

 

:: _ Warp _ ,  _ quiet. _ :: Starscream hissed, optics still facing the mini stage. Skywarp followed his gaze, and his jaw dropped. Two massive, brutish looking heavy hitters ducked through the door, tugging at chains coiled around their hands. The mech attached to them stumbled, fell, and was drug a good few feet before being allowed back to his feet.

 

The poor thing couldn’t have been much more than half his height, and looked like he weighed  _ nothing _ , made all the more evident by the way he was hauled around by the unnecessary muscle. His plating was polished to an almost mirror gleam, but the reflection on its surface was broken and distorted, from poorly hidden cracks in the orangest paint he’d ever seen, possibly even metal deep fatigue and stress fractures. Cream colored thighs and upper arms and abdominal armor showed the damage hidden beneath even clearer, the shadows of pits and cracks darker against the light paint, making it almost seem as though the damage was painted on. His optics were downcast, dim, haunted looking with deep set shadows around them, and when he was left standing in the middle of the brightest spotlight, the crowd’s chattering picked up in volume.

 

His spark was left on display, protected only by a thin, clear sheet of plasglass, or something else see through. Whatever it was, it was  _ obscene _ … there were only two types of mechs that bared their sparks like that, shrinks, and shareware...and Warp doubted the council brought this mech here to psychoanalyze them…

 

“Gentlemechs...this…’bot’...” Primus below he could  _ hear  _ the fraggin’ air quotes… “Was found to be a traitor to Cybertron’s ruling government. After extensive...research, on the part of the ruling council, it has been decided his only appropriate use in society now would be to serve those better than himself.” 

 

His tanks twisted, and his generator started crackling, energy gathering for a defensive warp to get his trinemates away from these monsters that were planning to  _ sell _ another mech off for slavery...his evening ration curdled in his intake, threatening a purge, and it took Starscream and Thundercracker both sending him reassurance over their bond, and soothing, subtle touches to his plating to calm him again.

 

He tuned out the rest of Ratbat’s pompous speech, turning to Starscream and putting on his best pleading optics.

 

::No.::

 

Brighten his optical output. Cue a few stray drops of optical cleanser. Level two...he usually couldn’t resist at this point. 

 

:: _ No _ , Warp. We don’t have time to care for another broken stray!:: Starscream hissed, glaring at him for good measure.

 

:: _ Look at him _ , Star! Look what they’ve  _ done _ to him! We can’t let him get sold off to someone sympathetic to the cogheads….he’ll  _ die _ .:: He only just managed to keep from pointing at the stage for good measure. Grounders didn’t have a solid idea of what a trine bond was capable of. Best not to let them get ideas, quantum level bonds like this were as strong as any spark twin bond, and then some. Who knew what the council would do if they thought seekers ‘worth studying’?

 

::You don’t know that, Warp.:: Starscream argued, crossing his arms over his canopy and adopting his ‘that’s final’ stance.

 

:: _ Staaaaaaaar! _ :: He grabbed hold of his arms, to the pit with ‘propriety’, he couldn’t see that poor sad little thing taken from this room by anyone other than them.

 

::Warp, get ahold of yourself, I said  _ NO _ !:: Starscream screeched, planting a thruster heel in his abdomen and pushing. Skywarp retaliated by putting one palm flat to Starscream’s cheek, trying to unbalance the Winglord enough to lower his fragging foot back to the ground.

 

They were completely oblivious to the disapproving looks and whispers around them as the argument escalated, but the sound of a gavel and Ratbat’s pleased shout of “Sold, to Lord Thundercracker of Vos!” cut through their single mindedness quite nicely. 

 

As one, they both turned their heads, hands and pedes still firmly pushing at one another, to look at Thundercracker, who’d lowered his hand and was walking calmly up to the stage to exchange a shanix card for the mech’s chains.

 

::Thunder-::

 

::Quiet, Star. There’s no harm in letting him care for the poor thing. And this way, we have one more up on the council. Now let’s get out of here.:: Thundercracker handed the little mech’s chains to Skywarp, not stopping in his march towards the door, and despite their arguments, despite Starscream’s ire at being told to be quiet, they fell into step naturally, Starscream two steps ahead as his trinemates fell back and to the sides just as they would in the sky.

 

The door opened and closed as silent as ever, but the hydraulic hiss as it closed was like a hammer strike in the sudden silence, as all the noise of the ‘party’ was sealed away.

 

“TC-”

 

“Let’s go home... I tire of this place, it stinks of grounders.” The Winglord said loudly, cutting him off.

 

::Not till we get home, Warp. There are optics and audials everywhere, down here.:: The voice in his comms was soft, gentle, so at odds with the harsh, nasal tone Starscream adopted when he was looking down on other mechs, and he wished the poor little thing hiding in his shadow could hear it, could be reassured by it, but he understood now that he couldn’t be kind to him. Not here. Not where the cogheads and their lackeys could see. 

 

It tore at his spark to tug on those heavy chains, to see the skinny little thing stumble closer, and he tried to make up for the abuse with careful, soft touches as he gathered him close to his cockpit, but the the unnamed mech trembled violently against his plating. He wanted to scream, rage, destroy something,  _ anything _ . A strafing run on the building would have felt glorious. But he couldn’t risk being detained here, not tonight. Not for them. The mech in his arms needed safety and comfort.

 

And as soon as they were home safe in the aerie? That’s exactly what he was getting.

 

Skywarp was slower to take to the sky, rising slowly and avoiding the showing jumps and flips he normally favored, reminded that he had a ground bound mech in his arms with the slim fingers that curled into his plating, clinging with a terror so strut deep he could almost taste it. Safe in the air where he and his mates ruled, he allowed his field to extend, to cover the other mech’s, and push as much  _ safety _ and  _ reassurance _ into it as he could.

 

_ Don’t worry, _ he thought, wishing he could say it aloud, but too paranoid to try while they were still so close to the mechs who’d done this,  _ we’ll get you home, and we’ll keep you safe. I promise. _


	2. Chapter 2

Skywarp never felt so grateful to touch down on the balcony at their aerie as he did that night. Their ‘guest’ was clinging to his plating, optics squeezed shut in abject terror, their armor clattering together loudly in the night air due to his violent shaking.

 

“Hey, hey...it’s alright, we’ve stopped.” He said softly, stroking down warped back plating with one flight chilled hand, but that seemed only to make things worse, as the little mech flinched away from his hand, into his canopy, and then flinched again when he realized he’d brought himself  _ closer _ to Skywarp instead of further away. 

 

Kneeling down, he loosened his hold so the trembling mech could place both feet firmly on the ground. Unfortunately, as soon as he let go, the orange mech’s knees gave out, and he dropped into a little heap on the ground.

 

“Oh frag, are you ok?” There was no response as the mech slowly raised himself up onto his hands and knees, head hanging low between his shoulders as he clearly struggled to keep his energon down. After a tense moment of silence, where he and the others hovered helplessly, unsure of how to ease the flight sickness he was clearly experiencing, he rose shakily to his feet, and waited with his chain held loosely in upturned palms.

 

Skywarp felt off balanced with that dead opticked gaze turned his way, and shuffled from foot to foot as he searched for something to say. Luckily, Thundercracker, ever the pragmatic one, beat him to the punch.

 

“Why don’t we step inside, so he’s not out on the open balcony? I’m sure that’s not helping his tank.” 

 

Skywarp hovered fretfully around the nameless mech, hands outstretched but not willing to touch without permission as they dragged themselves to their feet, shuffling slowly, painfully, after Starscream and Thundercracker into the aerie, dragging his chains along the ground behind him.

 

By the time they’d crossed the threshold, Starscream had already dismissed their steward. Skywarp felt a rush of relief at seeing Cyclonus missing from his usual post. Although it was never his job to wait up and make sure they needed anything when they came back late in the night cycle, that never stopped him, and he was a good mech, truly. But he was stern, and dour faced, and the last thing this poor mech needed to face after what they’d been through.

 

::Star sent him on ahead to get a room ready for him,:: Thundercracker sent him, when he noticed Skywarp looking around for the missing mech. ::Give him a little room, let him get used to us maybe? He’s got to be so overwhelmed right now.::

 

::I think he’s beyond overwhelmed and into ‘passing out’ territory now.:: Skywarp fretted, wings flicking rapidly behind his shoulders as he watched the mech sway on their feet. 

 

“I’m sorry...I’m afraid we don’t know your name yet…?” Thundercracker spoke softly as he knelt, putting himself on optic level with the shorter mech. They all waited quietly, wondering what name they’d be given, what their voice would sound like. A decent accent would give them a good idea where this mech was taken from.

 

Instead of speaking though, they dug around in a compartment in their arm that opened so jerkily it had to have been warped off a track, and came out with a small ident card. Skywarp took note of the way two fingers seemed bent at odd angles as a shaking hand held out the card for Thundercracker to take.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Rung of the Pious Pools. My name is Thundercracker. This is Skywarp,” Thundercracker gestured to Skywarp, who stood awkwardly in the doorway to not encroach on Rung’s space. Skywarp waved, a little wiggle of his fingertips that he immediately regretted, he must look like an idiot! Thundercracker, as always, sensed his mounting frustration with himself, and smoothly diverted Rung’s attention to Starscream, who stood at the far end of the room, near the hall entrance. Rising gracefully to his feet, he crossed to Starscream’s side, showing him the small card in his hands as he spoke. “And that is Starscream. He’s the head of our trine, and Winglord of Vos.”

 

Rung’s optics widened considerably at that, and he dropped like his tensors had been cut, prostrating himself on the floor, hands folded on top of one another above his head, field full of apology and fear as soon as Thundercracker finished speaking.

 

::Damnit, TC. Probably shoulda left out the whole ‘commander of the city’ bit, you think?:: Skywarp sent over their bond, more than a little sour at the sudden turn the introductions had taken.

 

Starscream, already tense and on edge, spun on his heel as Rung cowered, and stormed from the receiving room with a fury whipping his EMF into a tangible storm cloud.

 

Nobody spoke, or made a move, till they heard Starscream’s office door slam shut, and how a mech could make an automated sliding door shut was beyond Skywarp, but Starscream managed, all the same. 

 

Thundercracker came back to kneel on the floor in front of Rung’s trembling frame, and offered a subdued smile as he tried to hand Rung back his ident card.

 

“Should you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. I know the aeries can be disconcerting to ground mechs, but if you would like some time on the ground, I’d be more than happy to carry you down myself. We all want you to feel safe here.” When Rung said nothing, remaining in that prostrated position, Thundercracker sighed, and rose.

 

::I’m going to go talk to Star...just, go easy Warp. He’s  _ terrified _ , and Star pulling that little storm out didn’t help.::

 

::What torqued him so bad? What’s on that card, TC?:: Skywarp demanded, remaining where he stood in the doorway, fearing a single move in any direction might send the poor, frightened mech into a spark attack.

 

::They’ve labeled his function as ‘ornament’, Warp...they don’t even see him as a mech anymore…::

 

And for the first time in a long, long time, Thundercracker fled, leaving Warp trembling nearly as hard as Rung, rage barely held in check as he processed the implications of labeling a mech as an ornament. 

 

For nearly 20 minutes, he stood frozen in the door, as Rung slowly rose to his knees and inspected the room. Any time those tired blue optics landed on him, he tried to smile, but he more than likely came off as the hulking muscle, making sure a lower class mech wasn’t trying to steal their valuables. Finally, the tension became too much for him to handle, and he inched across the short distance between them, wary of frightening him but too wound up to remain still any longer.

 

“Hey...Rung?” There was no response, but then again, Skywarp wasn’t honestly expecting one. He broadcast his every movement carefully as he took hold of the thick pin spot welded into place to hold the heavy collar around his neck. It was a crude, but effective way to collar someone Rung’s size, with their distinct lack of physical strength. It was also an insult, indicating they didn’t think him even worth investing in a proper set of restraints. 

 

His EMF grew darker and darker as he imagined how they probably enjoyed watching him injure himself, in the beginning, maybe trying to break the bit of weld holding that pin in place. He wondered if that was how his fingers got so torn up. The weld crumbled under his own tense fingers, but he only noticed when Rung’s shaking grew so pronounced that their plating struck, and the smaller mech jerked away from him, stopping short and wheezing when Skywarp failed to let go of the pin soon enough.

 

“ _ Slag _ , I’m sorry, Rung, I’m so sorry,” He managed to get out as he fumbled with the pin, tossing the heavy steel collar away across the room and shrinking back from the smaller mech as though he’d been burned. 

 

Silence reigned again, only broken by Rung’s stuttering, wheezing coughs as his intake tubing got to flex freely for the first time in who knows how long.

 

And once again, Skywarp was the one to break it.

 

“TC’s really nice. He doesn’t talk too much till you get to know him, but if he says he’ll do something, he does it, so seriously, if you need anything and you don’t feel ok asking me or star, go to him. Star…Star’s an aft…but he means well. He just worries, yanno? He’s the winglord, all of Vos’ expectin’ a lot from him, and he’s so smart, and I think he’d be happier in a lab, or out exploring somewhere, but he’s here, taking care of the whole city, and it’s hard on him, so if he snaps, or something, just walk away. He yells, but he never strikes anyone, I promise. If you walk away, that’ll be the end of it, everyone knows that. Doesn’t matter the rank here, everyone walks away from Star when he gets upset…” He winced, he  _ knew _ he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t face the silence and the oppressive hopelessness in that EMF shrinking away from his own.

 

“And me...I’m the dumb one,” Rung’s optics went wide at that, antennae perking up, the first signs of a mech behind the broken shell since Skywarp had lain optics on him, “Nah, it’s true. Or, might as well be. I’m a lot faster here at home, where things are safe...I just...I have to protect them when we’re out there, and it takes up most of my processing power to always be ready to fight or run, my generator’s so oversized….so most people  _ think _ I’m stupid, and that’s fine...Star and TC know it’s not true...and now you do too.” He smiled, finally starting to feel his power levels even out, the iron grip on his processor from his warp programs releasing and his frame relaxing. It always helped to just talk, though usually he talked to Thundercracker, not a stranger…

 

Rung was still leary of him as he made short work of the cuffs around his wrists, but Skywarp didn’t comment, content now to gather up all the filthy, rusted steel and cart it off to the incinerator chute in the dispensery. 

 

“You can come with if you want. If not, your room is third door on the left down that hall there, and we’ll talk more in the morning.” When Rung didn’t move to follow him, he chose to let him escape to his room in peace, bidding a good night to the retreating back. 

 

~~~~~

 

Starscream sat behind his console, fuming, as he scrolled through endless referrals for medics. Most of the top referrals were for flight medics, as made sense for an aerie, but he needed a  _ grounder _ , slag it all to the pit!

 

The image of that ident card weighed heavy on his processor, and he found it difficult to focus as he tossed aside name after name. They’d reduced this mech to nothing. To less than nothing. To..to a  _ bauble _ , something to be enjoyed till they grew  _ tired _ of it, then given away to the highest bidder!

 

His fingers curled into claws against the desktop, denting the heavy metal and sending damage reports to his HUD from bruised sensors.

 

_ Finally _ , one name stood out amongst the rest, and he wasted no time in opening a comm line to the frequency listed. 

 

He couldn’t tear the council from their seats, cast them to the floor and grind them under his thruster like he wanted. What he  _ could _ do, was repair the mech they so callously abused, and make him better, stronger, than he was before they tried to break him. It wasn’t the fiery destruction he craved, but it was a good start.

 

The mech that eventually answered looked grumpy. More than grumpy, he looked absolutely  _ incensed _ as the video feed connected.

 

“ _ What _ in the seven slagging circles of the pit do you  _ want _ ? And if you aren’t leaking from every orifice and a few missing limbs, you can call back during actual clinic hours.” The medic snarled into the vid feed, and Starscream bristled. 

 

His first reaction, of course, was to snarl back. Give as good as he got, and then some, to put this rough little ground pounder into his place. But thousands of years of training and lessons kept him from opening his mouth and cursing the grounder in all sorts of foul and inventive ways. 

 

“My name is Starscream, Winglord of Vos, and I-”

 

“And you should be callin’ someone what works with  _ wings _ , your  _ majesty _ .” The medic rolled his optics, and Starscream ground his dentae together to keep quiet. “I’m not a seeker medic, as I’m so often reminded by those with wings.”

 

“I’m not  _ calling _ for  _ myself _ , Medic Ratchet.” Starscream hissed, feeling a tic start up in the plating over his left optic the longer he stayed on the line with this opinionated mech. “I’m calling because we have a guest in the aerie who requires your attention. A grounder.”

 

After a bit more snarling and posturing on both sides, Starscream grew tired of the back and forth, and cut in. “Several broken fingers, the majority of his plating cracked, dented, warped, or fractured, and all painted over without repair. One optic appears to be shorting out. I’m not sure if his vocalizer even  _ works _ , we haven’t heard a word out of him since he arrived, and-”

 

The feed was flooded with noise, and the sounds of sirens, and Starscream recoiled from the console with a wince.

 

“What is  _ that _ ?” He demanded, after lowering the audio feed considerably.

 

“That, your airiness, is the sound of a medic on the move. Will there be someone waiting to bring me up, or shall I shinny up the pole to your bird house with my kit between my dentae?”


	3. Chapter 3

With his sirens on, Ratchet was able to pass through all security checkpoints without question. At least, until he reached the gate that closed off the land under Vos from grounders.

 

“Listen here, bird brain,” Ratchet snarled, beyond done with arguing with the prissy flight frame that was barring his way, “You call up to your Winglord and clear me the frag through or I’ll-”

 

“Let him through, Ramjet. We’ve been expecting him.” They both turned to look up at the voice from overhead, just in time to see a seeker touch down gracefully, and dip his head in the guard’s direction. “Apologies that we didn’t let you know sooner. I’ll take him on up to the aerie. And you can make a note, until further notice, he’s allowed passage without question.”

 

“Ah...sure...whatever you say, Lord Thundercracker.” Ratchet noticed the way the mech bowed, but almost as an afterthought...like a show for the outsider? He filed it away to unpack and examine later, as Thundercracker was stepping up into his space and holding out a hand expectantly.

 

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll bring you up to the aerie. I promise, you’ll be safe.”

 

Ratchet would never admit his knees went a little wobbly when the seeker, larger than he was by nearly helm and shoulders, effortlessly lifted him into the air, thrusters pushing them further from the ground with every passing second. As much as he disliked being this far removed from the ground, he apparently had a bit of a thing about mechs who could lift his not insubstantial weight.

 

 _Focus_! He thought to himself irritably, fixing one hand firmly into the gap at Thundercracker’s collar fairing for peace of mind, the other curling around the larger mech’s forearm.

 

He was pushing away, striding through the open doors as soon as they landed on the platform far too high up off the ground, with no railing. What sane mech didn’t have _railing_?

 

Thundercracker was hot on his heels, waving aside a stern looking horned purple mech waiting in the entrance for them.

 

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll go get him, he-” Ratchet took hold of his wrist, halting him in his tracks and tugging till he turned to face him again.

 

“Your friend didn’t tell me much beyond the physical. Care to fill me in on why you’ve got a beaten up grounder in your home?”

 

He could see the way the proud mech drew up, plating puffing out and optics brightening. Thundercracker was _insulted_ at the implications in Ratchet’s question. It was clear he hadn’t been expecting the line of thought that Ratchet had gone towards, but his field was the sort of insulted that was tinged with a good deal of _horror/hurt/helplessness_ that told Ratchet….not nearly enough, actually, but at least put his mind at ease that the mech _probably_ wasn’t their abused plaything.

 

Thundercracker stared at him for a long moment, eyeing him up. Finally, he heaved a heavy exvent, and rolled his shoulders.

 

“All I’ll say is...we found him in the Council’s hospitable care and removed him to our aerie.”

 

~~~~~

 

Skywarp touched down on the balcony just after his wingmate and the medic. The thought of those awful restraints anywhere in their home, even in an incinerator, was more than he could handle, and so he’d taken them off to be disposed of _properly_. His null rays were still a little warm, despite the chilly night air on the way home.

 

“All I’ll say is...we found him in the Council’s hospitable care and removed him to our aerie.” Skywarp couldn’t help but snort at Thundercracker’s delicate phrasing, even as his battle processor locked onto the foreign mech in their midst, and everything started to slow to a crawl in his mind beyond warp trajectories and fight simulations.

 

“I’ll go get him, TC.” He made a beeline for the hallway, not wanting to leave his mate alone any longer than necessary. Hopefully Rung would still be up and he wouldn’t have to frighten the poor little guy awake.

 

Cyclonus had put him in a room just before the trine’s own shared space, instead of with himself and the few other mechs that lived there to help run the aerie every day. He really needed to remember to thank the grouchy mech for that. Maybe convince Star to give him some extra time off once things normalized again, so he could sneak off to see that cute little mech that he thought they didn’t know about.

 

Oh, and he’d been so _good_ , not teasing him about it.

 

Even if the little guy was like an adorably pure white pillowy sweet treat.

 

Who somehow fell for the sourest mech he’d ever known. And that included Star on his worst days.

 

And there went his processor, off on a tangent again...some day maybe they’d be able to upgrade his processor without setting off flags with the damn council. _Seekers are meant to be soldiers, not scientists,_ he thought bitterly. Stupid functionist propaganda. No soldier should feel this dumb and bogged down, relying only on instinct to judge between friend and foe.

 

He knocked on Rung’s door, waiting a good long bit before frowning and knocking again.

 

No answer.

 

“Rung? Hey, it’s me, Warp, I’m coming in, if you’re awake, ok?” He waited again, hoping the door would open on its own, the little mech on the other side trusting him not to do anything bad.

 

No such luck, though, so he coded the door open himself, stepping inside and palming on the lights.

 

As they gradually shifted from pure darkness to simulated sun, they highlighted that the overlarge berth was empty, the sheets still tucked in at the edges in that crisp, no nonsense way that screamed Cyclonus making the berth himself just for their new friend.

 

No Rung at the desk. Or on the balcony. Or under the bed, even. He pushed himself back up to his knees, having flattened out to see into the small space beneath the berth, and looked around, confusion and concern bleeding into his processor, a stain of worry on the edge of otherwise sharply focused coding.

 

“Rung?” He called out again, in the hopes that a mech who had to be terrified of them, and who clearly wasn’t there, would answer, as if the third time was the charm.

 

< _Warp, are you two coming out here any time soon? This medic is_ extremely _grouchy. >_

 

< _He’s not here!!! >_ Skywarp all but wailed over their open comm line, hands balled into fists at his sides as he fought down the irrational urge to trash the room, rip everything apart, as if the mech in question could be hiding inside the desk, or between the mattress and frame of the berth. His logic, that small, insignificant processor thread in the back of his mind that was all but drowned out by the panic swelling in his spark and processor, was screaming at him that destroying Rung’s room would be Bad. Spinning on his heel, he all but ran from the room, clipping his wing on the doorway in his haste.

 

With errors on his HUD to match the starburst of pain in his tac-net, he was blinded to his trinemate till he ran into him. Steady hands on his shoulders kept him from bouncing back into the wall, and twin pulses of reassurance and steady calm pressed against his spinning spark from the trine bond. It didn’t push the panic away completely, but it numbed it down to a level of agitation that was slightly easier to handle as he was instructed to vent.

 

< _It’s ok, Warp, we’ll find him. Vent for me. In and out. You’re overheating again_. >

 

< _How did we lose him already? > _

 

_< I thought you took him to his room earlier? Did he say anything?>_

 

_< No...I...oh slag TC, I didn’t walk him down here!>_

 

 _< WHAT?>_ Starscream’s ‘voice’ ripped through their comm suite, overwhelming anything that Thundercracker was attempting to say.

 

< _He was so scared! I didn’t want to make it worse by looming over him, I just...I told him where it was, and he came this way, and I left to get rid of those awful chains, Star, I’m sorry_! > Thundercracker squeezed his shoulders, bumping their foreheads together and catching his optics. He found himself easily latching onto that steady pulse, matching his own exvents with those of his trinemate as his spark slowly came down from hysteria to something closer to numbed panic.

 

“Ok, let me think, Warp...you said he came this way, so surely he just got confused, maybe he’s in another room?” It didn’t take long to verify the two other empty hab suites were, in fact, empty, and they found themselves standing outside the door to Rung’s room once more.

 

And Skywarp’s optics slid over the other mech’s shoulder, and landed on the closed door to the supply closet directly opposite of the door to Rung’s room.

 

Thundercracker followed the line of his optics, turning to look at the innocent door, and hope warred with despair in the trine bond between them as he reached out and palmed open the door.

 

At first, they both saw nothing, and the hope started to deteriorate. Could the mech have been so desperate to escape what had to seem like a hopeless situation that he’d done something unfixable? The windows in the habsuites opened onto balconies, making it easy for flight frames to come and go as they pleased. Skywarp dreaded having to check the ground far below for the shattered remnants of that tiny frame. Just as he was working that scenario up in his mind, and panic started to overwhelm him again, Thundercracker’s hand tightened on his forearm.

 

Twin spots of dim blue light peered out from behind a stack of rags, and with his pulse dropping and the energon no longer racing by his audials, he could hear the clatter of thin armor.

 

“Rung?” Wisely, it was Thundercracker that spoke first. Skywarp didn’t know whether to keen or rage at the way the mech shrank back into the shadows of the small space under the storage unit at the sound of his name. The warning squeeze to his arm kept him from doing either.

 

“Rung,” Thundercracker continued, kneeling down and holding out a hand to the other mech like one would to a wounded mechanimal, “There’s a medic out front who’d like to take a look at you.”

 

Rung shrank back against the far wall, antennae slicked back against his helm and optics flickering as panic surged through his field and slammed against the two of them with all the physical force of a fist to the face.

 

“You’re injured, Rung! He just wants to help you feel better! We all do…” Skywarp fully expected his outburst to frighten the mech further away from them, so when he relaxed (marginally) and leaned forward, tilting his helm this way and that, it took every last bit of his restraint to not cheer. Or grab him up and carry him off.

 

“We aren’t going to force you to come out,” Thundercracker remained kneeling, but let his hand drop, “That’s your choice. But we’d _like_ for you to come meet this medic, and then let us show you the berthroom we had set up just for you. It’s your own private space, and it’s much bigger and more comfortable than a supply closet.”

 

Rung moved so slowly, coming out from behind the supplies inch by inch, optics darting this way and that as if expecting an ambush the moment he was clear of his hiding space (and boy, if Skywarp wasn’t familiar with that feeling), it made Skywarp’s plating itch for action. Thundercracker stealthily pushing _patience/calm/stillness_ through the bond at him was the only thing holding him together as they waited.

 

Bless his trinemate. He could barely function on his own, and here his trinemate was, multitasking so seamlessly to take care of his poor, processor deficient dead weight mate.

 

< _Stop_. _We love you for who and what you are, Warp. I can practically hear you putting yourself down._ > Starscream hissed, and nobody but Star could make a declaration of love and devotion sound so troublesome and so loving at the same time.

 

While Starscream was lovingly berating him, Thundercracker was tugging him along the hallway back towards the medic. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed Rung following along behind them at a distance, hunched and wary of every shadow and dust mote that crossed his path. And while his own battle programs were screaming at him that a still mostly unknown mech was at his and Thundercracker’s _backs_ , _abort mission, danger, DANGER!!,_ that small bit of logic center admired his trine-mate’s forethought at letting Rung follow behind instead of insisting he go ahead of them and making him feel trapped.

 

And then they entered the receiving area and the medic laid optics on Rung for the first time.


	4. Chapter 4

Rung wished desperately for his plating to stop clattering so loudly as the large, dark seeker called his name over and over again, pacing outside the door. He was _sure_ someone would hear him, especially when another mech joined the first.

 

When the door opened, and light fell across his hiding spot, he froze. Maybe, just maybe, if he held perfectly still, he could trick their proximity sensors, and by extension, their optics, into not seeing him. He was good at that trick. He was _good_ at being unnoticeable.

 

For one wonderful, relieving moment, it worked. The darker one, Skywarp, clearly didn’t see him, shoulders slumping and going so far as to _pout_.

 

_3-of-13 pouted, too. Usually right after he was told Rung could suffer no more experimentation during one of their testing sessions._

 

One of his hidden chest compartments, warped and cracked long ago and resting very precariously on its track, clattered loudly in the silence, and his optics went wide as the other mech, the one called Thundercracker, finally found his hiding spot behind the stacks of cleaning cloths and knelt down to his level.

 

 _They_ never knelt for him.

 

“Rung?” He pressed himself back against the wall, fuel pump racing and spark pounding in his chest. _Why_ had he thought it a good idea to hide? He belonged in the closet with the other drones and tools, but he _should_ have come out the first time he’d heard them summoning him. He should have been _good_.

 

“Rung, there’s a medic out front who’d like to take a look at you.” Thundercracker continued to speak, holding out a hand towards his hiding spot, palm up and fingers splayed to show its empty state.

 

_7-of-13 never needed anything more than his empty hands._

 

That treacherous line of thought, insidious and sneaky, wormed its way through his processor almost unnoticed, but it still set off a fresh round of shakes that had his plating clattering too loudly in his audials and froze his damaged, useless vocalizer in his intake.

 

_1-of-13 hated your voice anyway._

 

“You’re injured, Rung! He just wants to help you feel better! We all do…”

 

There was something about the earnest honesty in Skywarp’s field, and on his face, that struck Rung. The council and their cronies had been good at faking sincerity during the millennia he spent in their tender care, but something had always shown through on their faces or in their fields, something that couldn’t be controlled, couldn’t be altered. Skywarp was extremely… _simple_ , in his mannerisms. There were very few nuances, something that intrigued Rung, and he found himself, shockingly enough, entertaining the thought of trusting him, at least in this one instance, to see where things would go.

 

“We aren’t going to force you to come out, that’s your choice. But we’d _like_ for you to come meet this medic, and then let us show you the berthroom we had set up just for you. It’s your own private space, and it’s much bigger and more comfortable than a supply closet.” Thundercracker sounded…not disappointed, not in the way he was used to hearing anyway, that ‘disappointed’ that was cruel and mocking; no, he just sounded _sad_ , as his hand dropped untouched back to his side.

 

Mind made up, though fear still clung thick to him, he slowly, painstakingly slowly inched his way out from behind the laughable protection of his chamois fortress. Instantly, his over-alert processor reminded him of how vulnerable he was, standing there between the two giants. Even kneeling, it was terrifyingly clear how much larger Thundercracker was than Rung, with those broad shoulders and the wings that only added _more_ mass. Skywarp, standing, _hovering_ behind his trine-mate, was worse. Rung was optic level with the middle of the war-frame’s cockpit.

 

Just as his fear was convincing him it was worth the risk to try and retreat to his closet, Thundercracker rose and took Skywarp by the arm, turning him towards that main room they’d first come into upon landing.

 

Relief, instantaneous, all encompassing, at the dual purpose of those twin expanses of wings suddenly exposed to him. Not only were they no longer looking at him, studying him, _judging_ him, just waiting for him to mess up, but now he was hidden from others optics behind those broad flat swathes of metal.

 

He could hear voices, though just barely, through his one good audial, as they moved back down the hall, and twice he caught Skywarp looking back over his shoulder at him, but the expression on his face wasn’t anything like what he’d grown used to seeing in the millennia spent with the council. There was no disgust or impatience or anger in his frame or field, only that strange, crumpled expression that tweaked the corners of his mouth down and drew his optical ridges in. They were all standard ticks for expressions of disappointment and anger, but the way they were put together on his face…

 

It confused him.

 

Every time Skywarp fitted him with that strange look, that mix of _distrust/sadness/disappointment/anger_ , Thundercracker would make a noise, or squeeze the other seeker’s hand, and he’d face forward again.

 

Then they stepped into the entry space, with its too bright lights and open space with nowhere to hide once the seekers blocking his view stepped aside.

 

A stocky red and white medic frame stood next to Starscream - _Winglord_ , his processor supplied, and he could feel the phantom sting of shock prods in his joints, urging him to kneel, supplicate himself before his betters. But there were no prods here, no cruel mechs insisting he show the proper respect before he was restrained and put through another round of ‘necessary tests’. Only the seekers, who all looked at him with varying degrees of concern, and the strange medic who swore loudly and creatively.

 

He knew, logically, that the medic crosses on the other mech’s shoulders _should_ mean safety, and healing, but the mechs who worked with the council wore those crosses, and he crossed his arms over his spark glass, partly out of a desire to protect himself, and partly to jam his trembling hands under his arms and hide them from view. He couldn’t hide the rattle in his plating however, and winced when Thundercracker stepped towards him, seemingly thinking better of it, and dropping his raised hand to his side as he froze.

 

He flinched back, reflexively hunching in on himself, trying to present as little plating as possible to be damaged. Before he could consider retreating, Skywarp had stepped between them, wings high, stance firm, blocking his view of the medic, and the medic’s of him.

 

“Easy there, big guy,” He heard the medic say, voice calm and careful. He could almost imagine the mech holding both hands up between them, trying to talk Skywarp down. He wouldn’t have blamed the mech for sounding nervous of the seeker, but the curious thing was, he _didn’t._ He was cautious, of course, and radiating that sort of projected _soothing/safety/harmlessness_ that every medic knew, but he didn’t seem any more intimidated by Skywarp then he would have been with a mini-bot.

 

“Skywarp.” It was just one word, but when Starscream spoke, there was a power there, an expectation for obedience, and Rung filed it away as something interesting to inspect later. Skywarp’s wings twitched, lowered a fraction of a micrometer, and at a further exasperated look from the Winglord, he stepped aside.

 

The medic was _far_ closer than he’d expected, stepping past Skywarp and crouching a few feet from him with his arms draped over his thighs and his hands hanging open and non threateningly between his knees. Bright blue optics ran over his frame, but the cold, clinical precision of a detached medic wasn’t there. In a way, the part of his processor that was removed from the situation, his only real protection against all that had been done to him, it was interesting to watch the play of emotions over his face. Rage was a big part of it, furrowing the space between his optical ridges, drawing his lip between his teeth hard enough to draw blood in an attempt to control his vocalizer, the way the fingers that had hung loose and lax from red palms twitched in an aborted attempt to curl into fists.

 

It would have been terrifying, if not for how clearly _not_ directed at him it was.

 

“Hey.” Rung jumped, took a step back before he could stop himself. The medic didn’t seem displeased, however. He only smiled, the lines on his face deepening as he did. “Hey, it’s ok, I’m not going to do anything to hurt you, I promise. My name’s Ratchet. I’m a medic from the Deltaraan Medical Facility. I just want to check you over and repair your injuries, is that alright?”

 

He took another step back, plating slicked down as close to his protoform as possible, fuel pump audibly knocking in his chassis as it sped up, matching the way his spark spun in it’s case at the mention of the hospital. He supposed, in that little part of his mind that was still separate and clinical, that he could be thankful this one didn’t have wings, or half a dozen optical fittings. He didn’t _look_ like them, at least.

 

“I didn’t _hire_ you for your experience at the Functionists’ hospital, medic, I _hired_ you for your work at a clinic the Functionists _hate_.” Starscream’s acerbic tone was a wash of relief over his stressed systems, and he allowed his shoulders to drop from their position around his audials, though he couldn’t quite convince his systems to stop racing or his plating to relax. They weren’t sending him _back?_ They weren’t continuing the council’s experiments?

 

At least… not tonight.

 

The medic spun on his heels, still crouched, and Rung couldn’t see his expression, though every tense line in his frame screamed _anger/horror/denial_.

 

“You’re telling me a _colleague_ did this?” He hissed, and the word colleague, in that tone, sounded like the worst, most foul thing to call a mech.

 

“I’m telling you we don’t know _what_ was done, nor by _whom_. Only that we removed him from the council’s hands. You have a patient, medic, please do your job.” He shivered, Starscream’s tone chilling him to the struts. The disdainful look the seeker pinned on the medic only added to the sense of _better than you_ that Starscream was exuding around the other mech. It was the same

 

Ratchet was cautious, when he turned back around, even more pulses of _reassurance/safety/healer/_ ** _safe_** pumping through his field, washing over Rung and enveloping him like a warm, almost stifling, blanket of calm. Every bit of the revulsion he’d portrayed not two minutes ago was gone, carefully tucked away somewhere where it wouldn’t affect his field, and therefore wouldn’t affect Rung.

 

Every move he made, he broadcasted, through field and frame, and explained verbally to be doubly sure Rung was comfortable.

 

He _wasn’t_. But that was…unavoidable. The medic smelt of antiseptic and grease and the ozone that clings to mechs routinely exposed to naked sparks.

 

It was a smell he was _intimately_ familiar with, and it was hard to separate the memories from the current situation as Ratchet carefully manipulated his limbs, checking each joint meticulously and narrating his actions and his finds to Rung, and to the trine.

 

The hairline stress fractures in his plating were smoothed over with a paint stripper that _burned_ as it ate away at the slap dash paint covering new and old wounds alike, but the cooling nanite rich gel rubbed in after was glorious and numbed just enough to take away the worst of the pain. When it came to his fingers, Ratchet held out a hand, palm up, and asked, quietly, if he could see them, and that made all the difference. Another medic might have grabbed, thoughtlessly, only doing their job and not taking the time to think about how the sudden, controlling move might hurt the trust they were trying to build.

 

“I need to put you into a medically-induced stasis, Rung.” Ratchet said, regret coloring his tone, and Rung pulled away, optics wide. They were…they were just a few fingers? Why would he want to put Rung into such a vulnerable position for that?

 

“And _why_ would you need to do that?” It was like…like Starscream was intercepting on his behalf, always questioning when Rung got too scared to react.

 

“Because they’ll need to be reset, and if he’s been through the kind of slag I think he has, I don’t think he, I mean, _you,”_ Ratchet paused, corrected himself, and spoke to _Rung_ , instead of through him to the Winglord, treating him as a person and not a decoration to be spoken _about_ instead of _to_. “I don’t want you to watch. I could numb it locally, put in a sensor block at the wrist, but you’d still _see_ me re-breaking the struts, which will be painful and annoying to heal even with sensor blocks, but easier on your systems then replacing a whole hand. You _really_ don’t need that stress. What can I do to help you feel safer about this stasis, Rung?”

 

“-“ He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to, tilting his helm and blinking his optical shutters rapidly a few times. His vocalizer, or what was left of it at any rate, clicked in his intake, and he shuddered, looking away and shaking his head. His hand was released, and the tingle of yet another medical scan washed over his frame.

 

Long minutes were spent standing there, awkward, quite honestly a little embarrassed, as the medic just _stared_ at him. He could only assume from the stormy expressions brewing on all three of the seekers faces that Ratchet was speaking to them over a secure comm line, though it was impossible to verify.

 

Finally, Ratchet cleared his vocalizer, seemingly uncomfortably, and gave him an apologetic look.

 

“The surface damage can be taken care of with the nanite gel, which I’ll leave with you, and the fingers… I would still prefer to put you under to repair them, to save your spark the unnecessary stress. Your vocalizer and the audial you’re having troubles with are parts that I have to fabricate…or locate. Thecurrent standards just aren’t compatible with your systems. In the mean time, I’m going to stick to simple yes/no questions, ok?”

 

Rung nodded, well used to this way of communicating by now. It was far better than the humiliating charades some of the council made him play for their entertainment, making him mime begging for his fuel or that one memorable instance where he’d tried to mime his own deactivation, begging for the tests, the _torment_ to end.

 

“Rung?” He looked up, shaking off the memory of their laughter at his expense, not quite able to meet the medic’s kind optics and instead fixating on a point on his left cheek as he waited for the questions to begin.

 

“Ok, we’re going to start off simply. Are you, right now, in pain?”

 

What did he define as _pain_ , he wondered. The low grade ache that suffused his joints, day and night? The sharp bite of gears that ground and stuck in his hands or feet from the chips put in the gear teeth on accident or on purpose by fine tipped medic tools? The ache in his tank at all times, from when he was put on what was essentially a starvation diet, running mostly on fumes for so long his tank had pinched and cracked, cannibalizing itself, which was only made worse when they decided nothing informative came of that and force fed him full rations too quickly, forcing the stressed, weakened tank to expand and crack.

 

“Rung, focus, please? How about this. On a scale of one to ten, one being the equivalent of a stubbed toe cap, and ten being the removal of limbs without pain blocks,do you understand?” Another nod, and he was more than a little impressed that the medic gave him equivalents, instead of just no pain or lots of pain to explain the scale. He clearly expected Rung’s pain tolerance to be higher than normal, which made it hard to gauge and diagnose problems. Things that should hurt a lot might not hurt much, and things that should hurt just enough to warn that something was wrong could be nothing at all to him, letting things go undiagnosed altogether.

 

“Good. Is there any pain on a 10 right now?” He paused, having to think hard for a moment before shaking his head in a negative. “Ok, how about a nine? No? An eight?” at eight, he chewed hard on his lip, and then slowly nodded a yes. The issues with his tank should logically rate around there.

 

It took what felt like _hours_ , with Ratchet patiently asking question after question. An eight? Ok, is it in your helm? Your shoulders? Upper torso? Lower torso? Every time he got an affirmative he would make notes on a hand held data pad (a patient chart, the logical part of his brain supplied) then move on. Any other eights? Ok, how about seven?

 

By the time the medic had catalogued every single ache Rung reported, and ran localized scans for each system causing the pain, the sky outside the big floor to ceiling windows was tinging orange, the rising sun glinting off the steel spires of Iacon in the distance, and the other aeries much closer.

 

Finally, Ratchet pushed to his feet, rising to his full height and stretching. Rung winced at the sounds of plates screeching and protesting from having remained respectfully, carefully motionless for so long to keep Rung comfortable around him.

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, with the parts I know I’ve got on hand, so we can at least mitigate some of the issues you’re having. In the meantime, I’m installing a mild pain block. Not enough to knock you offline, or leave you numb, but it should _help_ a bit. Lord Too-Good-For-The-Groundpounders over there obviously has the ability to contact me if there are any problems in the meantime, don’t hesitate to make him call me if something hurts or you start having any adverse side effects. Ok?”

 

He nodded mutely, wide optics fixed on the broad, stocky medic as he turned and gave instructions to the trine, things to watch for, as the pain block took effect, and the aches and pains that had been a dull buzz in his tacnet for as long as he could remember receded to a soft hum that was easily dismissible.

 

Bu the time he’d pulled himself away from marveling at feeling (relatively) pain free for the first time in centuries, Ratchet had gone, and Thundercracker was walking back into the room, presumably returning from taking the medic back down to the ground.

 

“Rung?” He jumped, spinning so quickly to face Skywarp that his neck strut twinged, and the black and purple seeker was backing away with his hands up, a stricken look on his face.

 

“I’m sorry! I just…oh slag, I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m so sorry…” He reached out, touching the highest bit of plating on the retreating seeker that he could reach, which just so happened to be a hip plate. Skywarp froze, looking down at him with wide optics and a cautiously hopeful field drawn tight against his plating. “Can…can I show you to your room? You actually have one. A room, that is. Not the closet. But a real room, a place where you can go that’s all yours.”

 

When Rung nodded, Skywarp beamed at him, reaching down and grabbing his hand, dragging him along without thinking, back down the hall. Rung threw a panicked look over his shoulder, but by the time Thundercracker and Starscream had caught up with them, they were standing in front of the door across the hall from the closet Rung had been in before.

 

On the other side of the door was…it was…he didn’t even have _words_ for it. It was larger than anything he’d seen for private quarters, _ever_. He couldn’t think of any berth room he’d seen in his life that rivaled this. The far wall was floor to ceiling windows, as the entry room had been, and beyond was a balcony.

 

“We’re going to have a rail put in. It’s…not normal, mostly the balconies are for seekers to come and go as they please without having to bother with the main landing pads, but we don’t want you to be scared to go out there, so there’ll be a rail to keep you from falling off the edge. And there’s a lock, look!” He turned when instructed, watching Skywarp demonstrate the palm plate next to the door. They were giving him a room he could lock himself inside of? They were giving him _privacy_?

 

Thundercracker, thankfully, noticed his discomfort as he was quickly overwhelmed by Skywarp’s excited, abundantly energetic tour of the space, and placed a hand on his trine-mate’s arm. Skywarp fell silent, once again looking _crushed_ at the thought of having upset him.

 

“If the view is too much for you, you can turn on the window displays, and choose whatever image you’d prefer, or you can just darken them. That would probably be best for now, so you can get some rest.” Rung nodded, watching as Thundercracker demonstrated how to use the controls, and the windows turned a deep dark grey, blocking out the dawning sun and casting the room into dim shadow. For a moment all he could see was the beautiful multicolored biolights of the three seekers on the far side of the room, and then the overhead light came on, a soft, warm glow that gradually brightened so as not to hurt his optics.

 

“If you need us, we’ll be right down the hall in the last room. Please, Rung, don’t hesitate to come wake one of us up if you need something. Or you can hit this button here and it will call Cyclonus, the mech who runs our household for us, but he can be a bit…” Here, Thundercracker hesitated, and Starscream snorted.

 

“Intimidating to newcomers, I believe, is the polite phrasing you’re looking for?” Starscream explained, palming open the door once more and stepping out into the hallway.

 

The relief Rung felt with even _one_ of the larger mechs outside the room was palpable, and Thundercracker quickly followed suite.

 

Skywarp for a moment seemed confused, then knelt and reached out as if to hug him. A pause, as he seemingly thought better of it, or was warned off by one of his trine mates, and he settled instead for patting Rung’s shoulder awkwardly.

 

“Glad you’re here, Rung…sweet dreams.”

 

And just like that, he was alone, in a room so large it seemed to echo. Turning down the lights, he padded back to the berth on quiet feet, and inspected the overly large thing. Piles of pillows grouped at the head of the berth, carefully folded thermo-blankets lay draped across the foot. Recharge cables, long enough to span the berth a few times over, were coiled on the nightstand. He dragged all of these things off, and squirmed into the small space beneath the berth, curling up in the slap dash nest and setting up proximity alerts to wake him if anyone came in before he started to power down into recharge for the night.

 

Just because they _seemed_ trustworthy didn’t mean he wouldn’t be careful. After all…the council _seemed_ trustworthy at first, when they came to him with the simple request for a few painless tests to see what his alt mode could do, and look how that turned out. As if in response, his tank cramped, and the poorly healed fingers prickled, as if warning him once the pain block wore off, the pain would be back with a vengeance.

 

Perhaps sleep was the best solution right now. Come what may, he’d survived before, and he’d continue to do so. He had no other choice.

 

As he drifted off, unable to resist the call of recharge any longer, he had one last, pitifully hopeful thought.

 

 _Maybe…just maybe, they’ll be different…._  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from NZ and full of feels for my favorite little nerdbot, so here, have some! :D I've got a couple chapters written up on this (and a few other fics) waiting in the wings, so regular updates will happen for a bit!

When Rung awoke the next morning, it took him a considerable amount of time to remember where he was. The press of metal overhead confused his sensors as they rebooted. He was so used to being kept in a harness off the floor or secured to a mag-berth in a private med bay that the confined space was comforting, but too different to easily slip back into recharge once aware of. He stretched, legs and arms tangling in the twisted pile of blankets that wrapped around him and trapped the heat in.

 

He didn’t want to get _up_.

 

But something had dragged him from his sleep...he just…didn’t know _what_.

 

Footsteps were his first clue, heavy, steady thuds against the floor the drew closer to his dark little space. He pressed back further into the shadows, barely daring to exvent for fear of being once again found somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Purple pedes came to a stop by the side of the berth, for that’s what it was he was underneath, he realized as his processor caught up with him.

 

He’d been _sold_. Sold into slavery without a second thought, for a paltry sum well below even the sum total of his component parts. Knowing that it had a been a last, cruel little dig from the Council wasn’t comforting in the least, and his plating rattled as he tried to hold in the shudder that raced down his spinal strut. They’d been kind to him last night, but that was no guarantee of a kind demeanor today, and the pedes belonged to no mech he was familiar with, in any case.

 

But despite his worst fears, he was not suddenly ripped from underneath the berth and shaken for his gall at hiding from his new, unwanted, masters. The owner of the pedes simply fussed with something on the berth for a few moments, until fresh new sheets draped down partway over the edge, blocking a small bit of his already limited range of sight. Retreating towards the door, the owner paused in the open frame for a moment, and a deep, rumbling voice that reverberated down to his very struts spoke up, gruff yet surprisingly kind in tone.

 

“Leave your sheets near the door and take the fresh ones I just laid out. I’ll return later to collect them for washing. I also left you some energon on the side table, though the trine wishes to extend an invitation of welcome to you to join them for the morning refueling should you feel up to it.”

 

A pause, while the mech waited, perhaps hoping he would respond, but no words came to his vocalizer that seemed appropriate, and he huddled back further into his little nest, biting his lip and squeezing his optics shut.

 

The mech didn’t sigh, but it sounded like it was a close thing, when he spoke once more.

 

“I hope you will come to understand that you are safe here, soon, little one. Until that time, know that my name is Cyclonus, and should you have any needs, I will see to them if you fear going to the trine.”

 

The joint freezing fear abated slowly after the mech had left, leaving him weak limbed and trembling in the pile of blankets that trapped the overwhelming amount of heat his frame was producing in, until he had no choice but to drag himself out into the open or melt in his plating.

 

True to his word, Cyclonus had left new blankets folded across the berth, and a lumpy pile of something soft and grey that he couldn’t identify until he shook it out. Spread over the corner of the berth, falling from his limp fingers, he hated the tears that welled up at the edges of his optical lenses when he realized what it was. Thick, plush mechanimal fur was revealed when it unfolded, beyond soft and so thick. It was the first thing he dragged off the berth when he finally found his processor again, dashing at the tears before they could fall and crawling back under the berth with his new treasure in hand.

 

It was quick work to drag last night’s nest out, and once he had the super plush fur tucked into the corner, he couldn’t resist laying down on it. Just for a moment. He’d not felt anything so _soft_ in his _life_. If his tank hadn’t pinged him, demanding fuel, he would have been happy to stay in the soft warmth for the rest of the day, but eventually the critical fuel warnings forced him unwillingly from his nest once more.

 

A cube of energon sat on the side table, just like the mech had said, and despite every rational thought in his processor warning him against it, he gulped the fuel down quickly, as if at any moment someone would appear in the doorway and take it from him. Even as he drank, his tank cramped painfully around the sudden influx of rich, thick, heavy fuel, far higher quality than the drips and drabs of watered down energon he’d subsisted on for so long.

 

That didn’t stop him, though, nor did the threat of a purge. He continued to force the too rich fuel down his intake until the last dregs of it were gone, and moving to set it anywhere but in his lap _hurt_. He knew he should probably get up, should make an appearance as was hinted at by Cyclonus, to find his new masters and see what his purpose would be here.

 

But crawling back into his newly laundered nest was a more appealing proposition, and one whose siren call he found he couldn’t resist. Eventually, he was sure someone would come to yank him out, to chastise or punish him for lazing about instead of serving the mechs who purchased him, but he found with a full, aching tank and warmth in his lines that he hadn’t felt in ages, he didn’t really care too much just then.

 

~~~~~

 

When he woke next, it was to the sound of pedesteps in his room again, and a quick peek showed they were once again purple. Cyclonus.

 

But there were no words of admonishment, no hands dragging him out from under the berth to answer for his lack of actions. Cyclonus crossed the room once, twice, then stooped to pick up the bundle of bedding Rung had left carelessly dropped near the edge of the berth.

 

“If you wish to come out, only Thundercracker is left in the aerie at this time, little one. It might be easier to get to know them one on one? But he wishes me to let you know that there is no rush or pressure to come out until you’re ready. We will continue to provide you with your fuel here and leave you be to acclimate yourself at whatever pace makes you most comfortable.” The low rumble of Cyclonus’ voice was almost soothing, tucked away as he was in the dark, cozy space, tank no longer cramping and frame so pleasantly warm.

 

There was an almost audible hesitation, as if Cyclonus was debating with himself. Then, hesitantly, as if unsure of overstepping some invisible boundary, the mech knelt to set his armload of linens down and remained crouched there, pointedly looking anywhere but directly at Rung’s hiding spot.

 

“Little one…” He started, then hesitated again, scrubbing one clawed hand over his face and exventing harshly, “I am…not the best mech to be reassuring you of your safety, as many in the household like to remind me. I am no doubt intimidating to you, and I apologize, but I just want you to know that whatever has been done to you…you are _safe_ here. I will protect you. The trine will protect you.”

 

Having said his piece, he rose to his feet, gathered the sheets, and exited quietly.

 

Leaving Rung to his thoughts.

 

~~~~~

 

It felt like hours later, though with his chrono offline he couldn’t exactly be sure,when Rung finally convinced himself to come out from under the berth. One way or another, he supposed, he had to get on with this new phase in his life.

 

He found himself stalling, though, long before he got to the door. There was only so long he could put off the inevitable by inspecting his new quarters, however shockingly luxurious they were for an unwanted mech that these Vosians had already spent good credits on. There was even a washrack en-suite, through an almost invisible door near the control panel that Thundercracker had shown him last night to control the window displays.

 

Some fiddling with that control panel eventually cleared the floor to ceiling displays, revealing a floating city already well into the late afternoon. Sunlight glinted off steel and glass and crystal, and the shadows of seekers in flight raced over balconies and rooftops as far as the optic could see. He didn’t dare go out on the tinted glass of the balcony, having no desire to stand on a nearly invisible platform with the ground miles below him, but he was content to stand with his nasal ridge all but pressed to the glass as he drank in the sights.

 

It had been so _long_ since he’d seen the outside world, and now he had this glorious seekers-optic view of a city few outside the Vosian natives were ever allowed to see. The drastic change was overwhelming, and for a long time he just stood there as jets crisscrossed the sky in a dance no grounder could ever hope to imitate. It wasn’t until his tank pinged him that he was running low once more that he was able to tear his gaze away from a beautiful sky by now shot through with all the rich, deep colors of a sunset.

 

He supposed, with his auto repair back online and burning through fuel quicker than it ever had before, now was as good a time as any to meet at least one of his new masters.

 

He could only hope this went half as well as Cyclonus seemed to think it would…


	6. Chapter 6

When he exited his room, there were only two options available to him. Left took him to the end of the hall, and his masters room, if he remembered correctly. Right took him back down to the entryway with its branching halls. Bracing himself and hoping for the best, he turned right.

 

Nobody was in the entryway when he peeked his head in, but he could hear voices off down another of the many branching hallways. Natural curiosity won out, and had him shuffling towards the noise, caught between hoping he’d go unnoticed, and finding sympathetic servants instead of one of his intimidating new masters.

 

Luck was, as always, not on his side, and although he hovered for long moments unnoticed in the entryway to what appeared to be an entertainment area, eventually Cyclonus looked up from where he knelt next to a lounge, speaking to the massive blue and red seeker, and locked optics with him. Shame burned at his cheeks when he was unable to hold back the startled little _eep_ at being caught in the stern mech’s line of sight, but Cyclonus only waved him over. The seeker twisted awkwardly to look up at whatever had caught his head of household’s attention, and offered a subdued smile when he noticed Rung hovering uncertainly at the top of the small set of stairs.

 

It was weird to have _anyone_ look _up_ at him, least of all one of such high status as this mech, and he stumbled down the steps into the sunken sitting area, falling to his knees and prostrating himself before the ( _too patient_ ) mech. Someone rumbled unhappily, and a hand reached down to fit beneath his chin. He flinched away, but the hand patiently followed him, and guided him up to look at the two ( _larger…so large. He was so fragile, so easily shattered)_ mechs pinning him not with the bored, impatient looks of mechs tired of being kept waiting, but _concern_. He didn’t know what to do with that, but ducking his head back down wasn’t the answer. The hand beneath his chin, _Lord Thundercracker’s hand_ , was immoveable.

 

_5-of-13 enjoyed watching you squirm._

 

He squeezed his optical shutters tightly shut, wanting so badly to be able to drown out that cruel little voice in his helm that loved to remind him of all his failures, of how he broke at the council’s hands, and their varying cruel enjoyments. Some days, it was blissfully quiet, and on those days, he wondered if it wasn’t an external voice, a gift from the council meant to remind him at random of their tender mercies. How nice it would be to just uninstall that evil little line of processing, to never have to hear it whisper to his cortex again about how useless and broken he was.

 

“Rung?” He blinked, hesitantly meeting Lord Thundercracker’s optics. The much larger mech looked _worried_ beneath the careful smile, and once he was sure he had Rung’s attention, his hand dropped back to the arm of the plush couch he was sitting on, curling over a tin Cyclonus had placed there. The tin the medic had left last night.

 

“I’m glad you decided to join me out here, little one.” Thundercracker spoke again, hesitantly, as if terrified the wrong word would send his new slave bolting for another hiding spot.

 

_9-of-13 loved hide-and-seek games. Loved tracking you down and dragging you out of whatever little corner you’d shoved yourself into this time._

 

It was hard to focus on his new master’s words when memories started to feedback in a loop on his HUD, of that blank, optic-less faceplate peering into the shadows, sharp claws reaching out to snag him by the ankle, or his audial, or hooking into the crumpled armor alongside his sparkglass to drag him begging and crying from his hiding spot. His plating ached, sympathetic pains as the memories played out, and the little binary whimper that escaped his vocalizer was beyond his control.

 

“Little one?” He jerked, the feeling of a warm, heavy palm on his shoulder jerking him out of the processor loop. Clawed fingertips curled carefully against his plating, but they weren’t 9-of-13’s, they weren’t the cruel, blunt claws of an inexplicably willing empuratee, but delicate, fine tipped things meant for precision, four soft little pinpricks that did more to ground him in reality than all the meaningless comfort words a mech could offer. Beneath those pinpricks, his already abused plating didn’t crumple or rend. Soft, tender cilla weren’t exposed to the cold of the underground compound as plating was ripped from his frame. Those pinpricks remained just that, pinpricks that reminded him that no matter what horrors he would face here, he wasn’t still with _them_.

 

He scrambled back on his knees when the two mechs shared a look, and he assumed a conversation over comms, and then both shifted so they were sitting on the floor in front of him, still larger than him, but no longer looming quite so large over his head. His master had brought the tin down with him, and opened the top before setting it on the floor between them.

 

“Would you allow me to take care of your hands as the medic instructed?” He asked, gesturing to the nanite gel inside the tin, “Or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

 

And wasn’t that a loaded question? He was given the option to refuse, which despite what may in fact be good intentions, was the worst possible thing his new master could possibly do if he wanted Rung to remain calm.

 

_12-of-13 gave you options. You always chose_ **_wrong_.**

 

These sorts of questions, in his experience, were _always_ loaded, and he _never_ picked the right answer. If he refused, perhaps his master wouldn’t be upset with him _this_ time, but what about the next time? If he submitted quietly to the maintenance, he could be insulting the seeker by expecting _him_ to service a lowly slave’s injuries.

 

What if refusing disappointed him?

 

What if _not_ refusing disappointed him?

 

Did he want an obedient, quiet slave? Or a willful mech still needing to be broken? Rung couldn’t _do_ that anymore. It was all he’d had in him to defy the council for as long as he had. The thought of continuing in that way made him physically ill, exhaustion weighing him down under centuries of abuse and neglect.

 

It was Cyclonus, once again, who broke through his loop of terrified thinking with a gentle hand on his knee.

 

“Little one, there is no wrong answer here. He is not testing you, nor is anyone else in this aerie. If you are not comfortable with his touch, he will leave your maintenance to you, or someone else of your choosing. Lord Thundercracker is a kind mech, and I can attest to his capability to treat wounds with the utmost care, but he will not punish you for saying no.”

 

The seeker in question only smiled mutely, pushing an overwhelming _wall_ of calm, kind emotions at him through his EM field.

 

Either they were both lying to him and he’d be punished, but never make this mistake again, or, less likely but more hopefully, Cyclonus was telling him the truth as he had appeared to do each time he’d entered Rung’s room today. If that was the case, eventually he would have to submit to the care of these larger mechs anyway.

 

Even after deciding to take the risk, his hands shook noticeably when he held them out for his master’s inspection. Massive hands all but engulfed his, but they were so gentle as warm palms cradled his own, and fingers smoothed over his rough, paint chipped plating.

 

“Thank you, Rung, for allowing me to do this.” The smile he was rewarded with was _blinding_ , and his vents stalled audibly at the simple expression of gratitude. Lord Thundercracker either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore it for Rung’s sake, but Cyclonus shot him a concerned look when his fans rattled on and off again with the loud _thunk_ of a bearing gone bad. Other than his faulty cooling system, the three of them sat in a somewhat relaxed silence for long minutes as his hands were fussed over.

 

He’d expected the gel to be applied quickly before his master hopefully moved on to outlining his expectations, maybe giving Rung duties to earn his keep. Nowhere in his wildest imaginings had he foreseen the massive seeker hunched over his worn little hands, gently massaging out the tension wires from palm to finger one at a time. Cyclonus pulling a repair kit out of his subspace and providing the tiny screwdrivers needed to tighten loose screws gave him a nervous pause, but the master only grumbled at a few stripped ones, asking the purple mech to make note of the ones that needed replaced.

 

Then came the cleaning cloths and solvent. Rung’s optics widened, and he shook his helm, pulling his hands away before he could think better of the action. Why would the mech who spent _credits_ on him stoop to _washing his filthy hands?_ One of them must have guessed the reason for his sudden burst of anxiety, because after a long moment of silence where he imagined them disparaging him over comms, complaining about his lengthy maintenance and lack of respect, Lord Thundercracker offered him the bottle of solvent.

 

“I swear I can _hear_ the honorifics when you look at me. In private, when there’s nobody around by our household, you can just call me Thundercracker, little one. Skywarp calls me TC, if you’d prefer that. We aren’t like your old captors, and I only want you to feel safe here. Some day, I hope that you will come to feel at home here with us.” Rung accepted the bottle mutely, pouring a bit into his palm and clenching his fist to let it soak into the internals. It stung as it came into contact with broken and abraded mechanisms, but the pain was manageable, and familiar, and grounded him in this unfamiliar place with these too kind mechs who kept insisting they wanted only his happiness.

 

They spent a substantial, surprisingly comfortable, time in relative silence after that, and eventually Rung was able to unclench his fists and allow the seeker to take them back for further maintenance. While he did that, Cyclonus brought out more cleaning supplies to arrange neatly next to Rung’s hip. Wordlessly, the purple mech held up a cloth, waiting for Rung’s approval before beginning to clean away the grime that still clung to his plating.

 

He would have preferred a trip through the wash rack, something he’d missed in the centuries of his extended stay in the care of the Institute, but it was difficult to remain paranoid as the two large mechs took such careful care of him. Their fields overlapped easily, and blanketed him in content and calm, and it was all he could do to remain awake as they continued to work. At one point, tears threatened to overflow his optical housings and he shuttered his optics and focused on his venting for an embarrassingly long time before he felt he was back under control.

 

It wasn’t until much later, after Thundercracker had meticulously applied a layer of gel to his hands and worked it into each and every seam, and Cyclonus had removed every bit of filth he could get to with the simple tools at hand, that anyone spoke again.

 

“Star and Warp should both be back soon.” Thundercracker informed him, in a casual, _friendly_ way, as if he were speaking to a family member, and not a mech he’d purchased the night before at a Council sponsored event. Apparently, as the seeker had gone on to explain, Skywarp always accompanied his trine mates when either of them left the safety of Vos.

 

“He doesn’t enjoy being seen as the enforcer, but he’s good at playing the role, and should something happen, he’s the best one to look to if you need to be removed from an unsafe situation.” Thundercracker didn’t expand on that, leaving Rung to puzzle it out in his processor as Cyclonus took the used rags and left the room. “I mean that, Rung. If anything ever happens, if you’re ever in danger, go to Skywarp. He will get you to safety. Is that understood?”

 

A command. A soft spoken, odd command, but nonetheless, it was the first _order_ he’d been given, and he clung to it for its familiarity and stability in the middle of this crazy dream world he found himself living in. An emphatic nod earned him another of those sweet, soft smiles and a hesitant pat on the shoulder as Thundercracker pushed himself up to his feet and stretched. Rung was entranced by those wings as they flared, so expressive and elegant, and his admiration of them was not lost on his master, who caught his optic and chuckled.

 

“I hope one day soon you’ll see we mean you no harm, we would all of us truly love to take you flying again without the fear of last night looming over your helm. But for now, I’m going to pop down to the ground for a nano click, because your medic is back with some parts for your repairs.”

 

He was left sitting in a quiet, contemplative silence as the seeker walked casual as could be out the door to the balcony and stepped off the edge.

 

Perhaps…perhaps he wasn’t dreaming. He didn’t dare hope yet that he would ever wake up a _free_ mech, but maybe these new masters would prove him wrong, and he would at least be _safe_ again. One slick, gel coated hand reached up absentmindedly to touch his throat, bare for the first time in over two centuries. The gel smeared over his intake cabling, and he spat a little blat of irritated static at the cool damp stickiness.

 

A quick glance around showed that Cyclonus had left not a single rag behind in his cleanup efforts, and an irrational well of panic rose in his intake, acidic and hot as it lodged there, when he heard the hum of thrusters. Thundercracker returning with the medic, or one of the other seekers, either way he’d just messed up the careful care he’d _just_ been given, and even _knowing_ the panic was irrational, he couldn’t help but search frantically for something, _anything_ that he could use to clean up the evidence of it before his masters returned and found reason to be disappointed in him already.

 

Cyclonus returned just then, as if summoned by his panicked thoughts, carrying a tray laden with cubes of rich, thick, iridescent energon, and froze when Rung huddled down on himself to try and hide his mistake. He had to wonder if the mech had telepathic abilities when he knelt next to him with a cloth pulled from subspace, and wordlessly dabbed at a smudge of gel on his cheek, and then the smear across his throat, but when the other mech showed no signs of having heard him wondering, he submitted meekly to being cleaned like a clumsy new frame once more.

 

That was how they all found him, sitting quietly in Cyclonus’ shadow, when the three seekers and their tag along medic entered through the open balcony doors a moment later.

 

“Well, as endearing as this is,” Ratchet rumbled, amusement coloring field and voice alike and washing through Rung even from the other side of the room, “I’m going to need to steal your charge from you for a time so I can do my job. Rung, shall we?” He looked wide opticked up at the medic who had crossed the room so casually and offered him a hand to his feet. When he stood on his own, not wanting to be an inconvenience, there was no hint of frustration, no rolling of the optics or snarky remarks about ungrateful or disobedient mechs. The medic simply ushered him out the door after Cyclonus to find a proper place to work.

 

“It won’t be a quick or easy road, mech, but we’ll have you fully functional again, just you wait. These seekers were probably the best damn thing to happen last night, and if that damn council of aft wits ever finds out, here’s hoping they glitch themselves.”

 

And as he followed the gruff yet likable medic down the hall, he felt a bloom of hope in his spark that he feared to nurture, that maybe, just maybe, the medic was right.

 


End file.
